


From the Ashes

by melian225



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Australia, Community: HPFT, F/M, Gifts, M/M, bushfires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melian225/pseuds/melian225
Summary: Following the Australian bushfires of 2020, a number of HFPT members pledged to write stories for people who had donated to the bushfire relief funds. Together, HPFT raised over a thousand dollars for the cause. These are my stories.
Relationships: Andromeda Black Tonks/Ted Tonks, Lavender Brown/Oliver Wood, Regulus Black/Bartemius Crouch Jr., Remus Lupin/Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Stolen moments

For Chiara (FelpataLupin), from Mel (melian), for her donation of $AU41 to the Australian Red Cross bushfire appeal.

Remus/Peter

_October 30, 1981_

Remus looked around the old building. He was a bit sick of having to meet in places like this, but the circumstances really didn’t allow for much else. He couldn’t impose himself on his father, especially now he was in the Order, and the list of locations which had not yet been compromised was getting shorter by the day. There was a spy in their ranks, that much was obvious, but he was buggered if he could be certain who it was.

The door creaked. Remus looked up, wand out, wary, but it was just Peter. Well, not _just_ Peter. That was who he was supposed to be meeting in the first place. He looked around, casing the area just as Remus had when he’d arrived, then lowered his own wand.

“It’s clear?”

Remus nodded. “As far as I can figure out, anyway. I’m not as good at those detection spells as the others are.”

Peter shook his head. “I’ve told you before, you’re just as good as they are.” He took a step towards Remus and winked. “Actually, you’re a hell of a lot better …”

They wrapped their arms around each other, relishing the warmth as much as the tenderness. Winter had come early this year and the wind rushing through the cracks in the walls was icy cold. Peter pushed his hands underneath various layers until he found the skin underneath, and spent some time tracing the scars running up Remus’ side and back.

“That’s a new one,” he said after a moment with the confidence that comes from long term intimacy, his fingers finding a gash that ran from armpit to nipple. “Was it bad?”

They both knew what he was talking about. The full moon had been only a week prior and, without James and Sirius to distract him, he’d taken out his aggression on himself. The result was never pretty.

“I guess,” Remus said. “You know I don’t really remember them afterwards. Not without you lot to tell me.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there,” Peter said. His mouth was so close to Remus’ collarbone he could barely hear the words. Not that he was complaining. These days, he took every embrace he could get. Especially from him.

They stood there for a while, holding each other, exchanging kisses and just enjoying the short time they could spend together. There was always so much to do, so many conflicting priorities, that it was almost impossible to steal a moment like this. It didn’t help that no one else knew about them; James was so caught up with Lily and Harry he had little time for anything else, and Sirius was always rushing off doing something for the Order that they’d never had a chance to tell him. Not that Remus expected Sirius would understand anyway – he and James had always been dismissive of Peter, had never recognised his true value and abilities. Ah well, they would one day, he thought. One day they would understand.

Once he’d warmed up a bit Remus found himself fumbling with Peter’s belt. “How much time do we have?”

Peter laughed but put a cautionary hand in the way. “Not enough. At least, not yet. Padfoot wants to drop by to pass on some info, so we’d better stay dressed until he goes.”

He swore under his breath. “Couldn’t it wait?”

“Apparently not.” Peter grabbed a hand and kissed it.

They sprang apart at the sound of the door creaking again. Peter had been right to wait – Sirius was there already. He looked relieved to see them.

“Ah, good, you’re both here. I’ve just been to see Dumbledore.”

Remus’ eyebrows lifted. “What does he want? More work?”

“Actually, not really. It’s James and Lily. He says the threat against them is getting tangible. Reckons it’s time.”

He heard Peter catch his breath. “For the Fidelius Charm?”

“Yep. He offered to be Secret Keeper himself, but I told him I’d do it. But it has to be soon, so I want to head over there this afternoon.”

Remus shook his head. “That _is_ quick. I knew it was coming, but I hadn’t realised it would be this soon.” He said the words warily, unsure of how much to show. He had an inkling Sirius might be the spy, and if that was the case he didn’t want to give too much away. But if he was the spy, then the Fidelius Charm made things a little too easy for him – only he would be able to share James and Lily’s location with the Death Eaters. He hoped against hope the Potters would be safe.

Sirius was visibly upset, which could have meant anything. “I can’t believe it’s come to this. But apparently there’s no other way. Voldemort’s got this sick fixation on them.” He paused. “Uh, Moony, would you mind leaving us for a tick? There’s something I want to talk to Pete about.”

He caught Peter’s eye, finding there the promise of a meeting later on if time permitted, and pulled his coat tight around himself. “Sure. I’ve got to head off anyway. See Dad before I need to go on the next job. You know.”

The other two nodded, Sirius looking agitated, Peter torn. It was a wrench walking away.

“See you later, then. Best of luck, both of you.”

He heard Sirius’ groan as he closed the door. “Thanks, mate. We’ll need it.”


	2. Damaged

For Abbi (CrimsonQuill), from Mel (melian), for her donation of $20AU to the Australian Red Cross bushfire appeal.

Lavender Brown/Oliver Wood

That was the funny thing about anniversaries. Everyone celebrated them in their own way. May 2 was a powerful date in the wizarding world – the date of a catalogue of destruction, of far too many deaths, of lives irrevocably changed, of heartbreak, of loss. But it was also a symbol of hope, of victory against the odds, of the power of people working for good triumphing over evil. It was, in a nutshell, Harry Potter Day, even if such a moniker was at best unofficial and at worst unwanted by its namesake. Oliver didn’t know. He hadn’t spoken to Harry for five years.

There was no animosity in the silence, just a lack of convenience. They had, after all, been colleagues at best, team mates as teenagers on a school sporting team. Oliver had seen Harry since that time and they’d exchanged nods across a room, he had played against Ginny countless times, but that was about it. Harry was always too busy, too sought after, to be able to spend time with someone he used to know.

Oliver had always approached this day with a degree of trepidation. He appreciated the significance of the victory over Voldemort, but he couldn’t forget the Battle itself. Carrying bodies back into the Great Hall for their loved ones to identify. Some he’d known, some he hadn’t, but there had been too many. Too much death, too many injuries that never healed. And so he chose to spend today, the fifth anniversary of the Battle, at the memorial in Hogsmeade, maybe dropping into the pub later to throw back a broth or two. God only knew he could use it.

“Colin Creevey,” he murmured, tracing his finger across the name. He remembered Colin. Annoying little kid who used to follow Harry around everywhere. Even with Muggle born first years, Harry was still a celebrity, even as a child himself. Colin had been a pain as an eleven year old, but he didn’t deserve to die.

He touched another name. “Fred Weasley.” This one he knew well; had played Quidditch with him for years, shared a dorm with his brother Percy. Fred was a great kid. Another one gone far too soon.

“Remus Lupin.” Not a fellow student but a teacher, come back for the battle, died along with his wife and leaving a newborn son behind. Everyone knew the story these days. Not everyone had known Lupin, but Oliver had. He’d always felt a bit sorry for the man, with his obvious poverty and anxiety, things which students often didn’t notice in teachers. Oliver had noticed. He’d liked Remus Lupin, even after he’d discovered the man was a werewolf. Not everyone had been so understanding.

“Such a shame, wasn’t it?” said a quiet voice next to him. Oliver jerked to attention, having not noticed he had company. The intruder was a head shorter than him, female, with a long black veil over her face. “Professor Lupin being killed, just as he’d had a new baby.”

Her naming of Lupin as Professor told Oliver she’d been at the school at the same time. “You knew him too?”

She nodded. “He was a wonderful teacher. I was so disappointed when he left.”

Oliver felt his scepticism rise. “Even if he was a werewolf?”

She shrugged. “It was a big scandal at the time, of course. I might not have reacted very well. But that was then. I’m older now. And, you know, I _was_ disappointed, even if I didn’t want to admit it to my friends at the time.”

He could understand that. “I’m Oliver,” he said, offering her his hand.

She took it and shook it lightly. “I know who you are. You played Quidditch with Harry.”

That got his attention. “So you knew Harry too?”

“Yes, once upon a time. I don’t expect you to know me. My name’s Lavender. I was in Harry’s year, in Gryffindor.”

Oliver thought back but couldn’t recall any girls from that year except the obvious. “So you shared a dorm with Hermione Granger?”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t say we were friends, but we didn’t dislike each other either. Hermione was a difficult girl to get close to in some ways.”

He smiled despite himself. He’d often suspected that about Hermione Granger, but then one didn’t say disparaging things about a person so universally respected, and whom one didn’t really know. He turned to Lavender-whom-he-didn’t-remember. “I’m heading to the Three Broomsticks. Feel like a drink?”

****

Lavender surprised him by not removing her veil at the pub. Sure, it was a day of mourning (for some), but he figured it would be easier for her to drink her gillywater if she took it off. Still, everyone coped in their own ways. He drank more than was good for him and used Quidditch to beat off any demons that might be haunting him. If the veil did it for her, then that was fair enough.

“So, tell me about yourself,” he found himself saying. After all, she knew who he was, so it was only fair the favour be returned.

She shrugged, and he wished he could see her face. “I was at the Battle. I was at the school that year and joined in Neville’s Rebellion.” Oliver nodded: everyone knew that story too. “We all got some scars, but being a war hero, so to speak, opened a few doors after we left. You would probably remember how many businesses, and the Ministry itself, wanted people from the Battle to work for them. Overlooked the lack of NEWTs and relevant experience, the whole kit and caboodle.”

He chuckled. “That’s right. I went back to playing Quidditch so that didn’t really affect me, but I do recall that. So where did you end up?”

“St Mungo’s. I studied facial reconstruction.”

He started, almost slopping Firewhisky over himself in the process, and ignoring the involuntary shudder the hospital’s name always gave him. “That’s an interesting career choice.”

She shrugged again. “The demand isn’t quite what it was back then, but there were a number of people asking about it. Some scars don’t heal magically, you know, and facial bones are the hardest to re-set without making radical change to a person’s appearance. The skills were needed.”

“And are they still needed?” He found he was more interested than he’d anticipated.

“Actually, they are. Now it’s mostly accidents: broom injuries, sporting injuries – I guess you’d know about that – miscast spells, that sort of thing. You don’t get so many curse scars, or any others that don’t heal, as you did when the Death Eaters were around. Either time.”

That confused him. “What else is there that doesn’t heal?”

Her reply was so quiet that he couldn’t hear it over the noise of the pub. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

She took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Werewolf scars.”

Something stirred in the back of his mind. Lavender. Werewolf scars. The Battle of Hogwarts. Stories told of Fenrir Greyback mauling a teenaged girl, almost killing her, before being blasted by Hermione Granger (her again) and knocked out by a crystal ball to the head. He chuckled inadvertently – Professor Trelawney had finally justified her existence that night. But the girl … was that Lavender? The name seemed to fit the scene.

“Why do you wear the veil?” he asked abruptly.

She hesitated. “I like to wear it.”

“But it’s not just an anniversary thing, is it?” he pressed. “Do you wear it every day?”

After a pause, he saw her nod.

“Then that’s it,” he said, almost triumphantly. “The girl Greyback attacked. In the Battle. That was you, wasn’t it? And you studied facial reconstruction so you could try it on yourself.”

She took a long, deliberate drink, draining it. “Think you’re so smart, don’t you? I’d offer to compare battle scars, but I realise that not all of them are physical. But yes, you’re part right. I did get attacked by Greyback that night. But don’t think you can talk to me for five minutes and know my motives, Oliver Wood. Give me a bit more credit than that.” She put the glass down. “Thanks for the drink. Try not to have too many more once I’m gone.” And she stood up and left.

****

He thought about that conversation a lot over the following days. He recognised that yes, he had been a bit of a tool, and that the assumption that the only reason she would want to work in that field was personal vanity was probably more insulting than he’d meant it to be. But she had fire, that girl. Spark. She had more spirit than most of the people he knew put together.

She was also more insightful than most. A lot of people – even those he would have thought would know better, even some who had been at the Battle themselves – had seen an absence of physical trauma from that day and assumed he was unaffected. Like being intact in his body meant he was also intact in his mind. He had committed the same offence, early on, in his own way: assumed that the scars were either physical or mental, that no one would suffer from both. That was a fallacy he’d been informed of in no uncertain terms when he’d run into Pomona Sprout a few years back. He wondered now whether Lavender suffered from both, too: whether she had the nightmares, or the panic attacks, or anything else he tried to fight off with drink and exercise. Whether she was one of those Professor Sprout had alluded to. And just what she was hiding under that veil.

But most of all, he wondered whether she would accept an apology. And how he might go about offering one.

At least he knew where to find her: St Mungo’s. Though he wasn’t sure which floor she’d be on, as facial reconstruction could apply to any number of departments. Hospitals gave him the creeps – actually more than the creeps: he actually had a physical reaction to being in one – so he decided to ask at the front desk.

“Hi! I’m looking for a healer called Lavender-” He faltered. He had just realised he had no idea what her surname was.

The welcome witch wasn’t much help either. “Lavender what?” she asked, her face furrowed in confusion.

“I … don’t know. But she’s in facial reconstructions. Does that help?” He hoped so. He didn’t want to be here. Already he could feel a panic attack coming on.

“It might,” the woman said. She reached for a thick book with dog eared pages and started riffling through it. Oliver turned to apologise to the people waiting in the line behind him – a man with tentacles coming out of his ears, and a harried young mother trying to control what seemed like an invisible toddler – but before he could get the words out, the welcome witch gave an exclamation of triumph. “That’s it. Ground floor, artefact accidents. Lavender Brown, her name is. She’s rostered on till five.”

“Thank you.” His breathing was sharp and irregular by now, and the welcome witch was looking curiously at him as though expecting him to admit himself as a patient. But he knew the only way to calm himself down was to leave the building completely. Hoping he wasn’t attracting too much attention, he made his way to the exit and collapsed on the pavement outside the old department store.

_Concentrate on your breathing. You can do this. In through the nose, out through the mouth._ He hated the way he reacted to this place, hated the memories it stirred in him, hated delivering the bodies there after the Battle, hated watching Henry Blenkinsop fade away after he’d been used as a plaything for Bellatrix Lestrange (that woman had been pure evil), hated consoling Adele Grimstone as she dealt with the loss of an arm, which had prematurely ended her Quidditch career; hated watching his father die the previous year, hated his own time staying on the fourth floor (where in some wards, spell damage acted as a handy euphemism for mental health issues) when he couldn’t see a way out from his downward spirals. St Mungo’s had no happy memories for him. No wonder he reacted the way he did.

He was still sitting there an hour later, considering a brief sojourn to the nearest pub, when Lavender came out. He was so surprised to see her that it occurred to him that he’d forgotten why he was here in the first place. She was halfway down the street, probably heading for the nearest apparition point, before he managed to speak.

“Lavender!”

She halted and turned around hesitantly, the veil swinging around her head enough to give him a glimpse of her chin. “Yes?” Then she saw him and paused, as though trying to work out what her reaction should be. “Oh. Oliver.”

He pulled himself to standing. “I … I just wanted to apologise.”

Her posture became less hostile, somehow. “For being a narrow minded prick, you mean?”

“Yeah, that.” He looked at the window of Purge and Dowse, with its vacuous mannequins hiding the horror inside the building, and gestured along the street with his head. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

She looked at her watch and shrugged. “I guess. But not a pub, okay? You look like that’s the last place you should be.”

He looked down at himself, acutely aware he’d recently recovered from a panic attack, and ran his fingers through his hair in what was probably a futile attempt to appear normal. He must look a wreck. “Coffee, maybe?”

They settled in a coffee shop two streets away, far enough for him to breathe easily again, but near enough to her apparition point for her to get home easily. She broke the silence.

“So what happened to you?”

He gestured helplessly. “Hospitals and I don’t get along. Not since … Well, not for a while now.”

She nodded. “Not since the Battle? Yeah. I spent a bit of time here then.”

“I guess you would have. I had to bring the bodies back. You know. Fred. Lupin. Snape. And since then … Well, let’s just say I feel healthier when I’m well away from it.”

“And yet you came anyway.” She sounded impressed. “Was apologising to me that important to you?”

He nodded, picking up his mug as something to do with his hands. “Yeah, it was. I was a dickhead last week. I got what I deserved. But I’m not normally like that.”

She appraised him through her veil. “So what are you normally like then?”

He hesitated. “I’d like to say I’m the life of the party, happy-go-lucky, full of optimism and cheer. And I might have been a bit like that once. But the truth … well the truth isn’t so positive.” He took a deep breath and the words came gushing out. “I’m a mess. The Battle really screwed me up. I drink too much, I throw myself into Quidditch because when I’m on my broom it’s the only time I feel free of the memories, and to be honest I’m surprised we haven’t met before because deliberately riding into a tree has crossed my mind more than once, and knowing my luck I’d survive and have to have my face rebuilt. And I really wish you could rebuild the inside, because that’s the bit that’s screwed, but you can’t, so I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.”

She was silent for a while, and he had a sudden horrifying thought that she was going to walk out on him again. But she didn’t.

“Have you spent time on the fourth floor?” she asked gently instead.

He nodded mutely.

She picked up her coffee and took a careful sip, then fingered the edge of her veil. “I wear this because, in my line of work, people with facial injuries need to see that there is someone else like them. That they’re not alone.” He started to say something, jolted into speech by astonishment, but she silenced him with a raised finger. “At first, it _was_ because of the mauling. In a sense, it was like you thought. But the healers did a good job after the Battle and, once the scarring faded a bit, it wasn’t an issue really. I didn’t learn my craft to do work on myself. I learnt it because I discovered how much of a person’s identity can be caught up in how they look.” She took a breath. “After the Battle, there were a lot of people like you. People who felt broken inside. And I can’t help with that. I can’t delve into your mind and fix the connections that seem to be damaged. But I _can_ help with how people look, and sometimes that can help what you call the inside bit, too.”

He thought about that. It made sense: that recognition that one person can’t fix everything, but they can make an effort to help in the one way that they can. “Did it help you? Being fixed on the outside, so to speak?”

She nodded. “It did. But for someone like you, you didn’t have any physical injuries, so I can see how you might have fallen through the cracks a bit.” She reached across the table and took both his hands in hers. It felt incredibly comforting. “You probably need a proper counsellor, but in the short term maybe you just need a friend? Someone you can talk to, you know?”

He nodded again. She’d nailed it, he thought. He had plenty of acquaintances, a few friends he could call on for a beer, but no confidantes. No one he could burden with the mess that was his subconscious. “I don’t suppose …” He hesitated, unsure how to ask, unsure if she would be receptive at all, but not knowing who else to turn to. “I don’t suppose you want to volunteer?”

He could feel rather than see her surveying him critically from behind her veil. “Oh, why not,” she said eventually. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

****

They began to meet weekly, usually on a Tuesday after her shift. Sometimes it was for dinner, sometimes for a (non-alcoholic) drink, sometimes they just went for a walk and talked for hours. It was the time that fit both their schedules the best – she wasn’t on call, he didn’t have training – and that didn’t feel like at date, as a Friday night might have. He had been the most vocal at avoiding that, to keep the relationship uncomplicated, as he said, but he had a dreadful feeling it might have had a lot to do with the fact he didn’t know what she looked like. Did he really care that much about appearances that he wouldn’t date a woman whose face he’d never seen? He didn’t like to think so, but it appeared to be true.

In the short term, at least, As the weeks wore on he found himself wondering why he’d been so adamant about the not-date status of their get-togethers. Did he really need to know what she looked like? Why was that so important? Wasn’t the goodness of her heart, the generosity of her spirit, her selflessness, her sense of humour, the way she could make his heart sing more important? And her input was definitely helping. He even stopped having nightmares, which he’d not been free of since before the Battle. He thought of telling her so one night on one of their walks – he had already told her so much, about the panic attacks, the nightmares, the days he felt he couldn’t get out of bed, the days when he wanted to forget everything and find oblivion, and the days when everything was so easy and good and clean that he found it hard to believe the other days existed – but she never gave him the chance, instead interrupting his thoughts by saying the thing he least expected.

“I saw your game on the weekend.”

He looked at her, surprised. She’d never shown an interest in Quidditch that he was aware of, beyond knowing who he was. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Nice save in the twentieth minute. What was that, some kind of loop-the-loop goalie move?”

He chuckled. She had indeed seen the game if she knew about that. “Kind of. It’s called the Ryan Roll, after Barry Ryan from Ireland who first did it in an international game. It’s effective, but you can’t do it too often because you get a bit dizzy and if they get the Quaffle anywhere near you in the next half a minute or so, you’re stuffed.”

“Well, it looked impressive.”

He stole a glance at her. “You should have told me you wanted to come to a match. I would have got you tickets.”

She shrugged. “My dad got tickets. I didn’t want to trouble you.”

The breeze moved the bottom of her veil and he got a glimpse of her chin. For some reason it seemed incredibly erotic. “What if I wanted you to come?” he asked, his voice sounding thick and heavy.

She stopped and turned to him. “Do you?”

He was surprised by how much he did. “Hell yes. I want you there.” _I want you there when I wake up in the morning. I want you there when I grow old._ He had no idea when this had become the case but he was absolutely certain it was true.

Slowly, she reached up and unclipped her veil, dropping it slowly to reveal her face. It was in many ways an unremarkable face, the face of an average-to-pretty woman in her early twenties, barely marred by a few white lines across her right cheek, indicating where she had been mauled.

“Are you sure?” she asked. She was asking a lot more that just whether he wanted her at his games, he realised. She was still self-conscious about her scarring, no matter what she might say. She was asking for acceptance.

To Oliver, it was a moot point. The answer to one was the answer to the other. Hers was the most beautiful face he had ever seen. He reached for her cheek, giving the bone a light caress, tracing the line of a scar with his finger, catching his breath at the feel of her skin against his.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”


	3. LIberation

For Kayla (poppunkpadfoot), from Mel (melian), for her adoption of a koala from the Port Macquarie Koala Hospital.

Sirius/Remus

“Feel like another drink, Moony?” Sirius leaned over lazily and tapped the cocktail glass with his wand. Within a moment it had refilled, complete with the tiny yellow umbrella and glace cherry.

“Guess it’s too bad if I didn’t.” Lying alone on the bed, Remus stifled a grin.

Sirius reached across from the sofa and batted him on the back of the head playfully. “Come on. You only live once.”

Obligingly, Remus drained the glass in one gulp, then held it up triumphantly. “That I do. Though – ” – he watched Sirius’ face drop, knowing he was going to refer to real life again - “I still can’t believe Dumbledore actually encouraged us to come here. Since when have I lived in a private resort in Majorca?”

“Since I dug into my vault to pay for it,” Sirius said. “You really would think that at least one of the Aurors they’re paying to look for me would have thought to put a freeze on withdrawals, wouldn’t you?” He grinned and raised his glass. “Well, cheers to dumb Aurors, then.” He paused, frowning when Remus didn’t smile with him. “Come on, we’ve been over this. I can’t stay in England, and you’re currently unemployed. Why not Majorca?”

Remus finally smiled. Why not indeed. It had been a bit of a trial getting to this point, what with Sirius leaving England on Buckbeak and then having to arrange his own travel, and then to book a king room for the two of them, but once those had been done they just hung the “Do not disturb” sign on the door and made the most of their private pool and well-stocked cocktail bar.

The first few days had been tentative at best. Awkward. It had been twelve years since they’d really interacted, twelve years since they’d started blaming each other for what had happened. Yes they’d been close before, but so much had changed. For Sirius, it was Azkaban – he still had the haunted look behind his eyes and there were occasional nightmares that he didn’t want to talk about – whereas for Remus, it was over a decade of poverty, scratching to get by, dealing with both loneliness and the humiliation of being fooled and then betrayed by the person he’d thought he’d known best. A humiliation which he now knew was unwarranted, but it didn’t change the past.

Slowly, though, they’d begun to get back to their old rhythms. Learnt to trust each other again, with the little things as well as the big ones. Sirius had learnt that Remus now had fewer sugars in his tea, and Remus had learnt that spending as much time as a dog as Padfoot had done had given him a taste for meat somewhat rarer than he used to eat. That was about when they’d really shed the clothes, which hadn’t made an appearance since.

They had adapted a little to Muggle life, too, with the television in the corner continually blaring either Spanish talk shows or badly dubbed American comedies. When the evening news came, on, though, the familiar trepidation resurfaced. Today, it was justified.

“Shit. Look, Padfoot, you’ve made the news here.”

He jerked a thumb at the TV, which showed the old image of Sirius from when he’d escaped from Azkaban, a good twelve months previously. He wasn’t sure what the newsreader was saying but he was guessing it was a request to keep an eye out for him.

Sirius glanced at the screen and made a gesture that indicated he wasn’t concerned. “I wouldn’t worry. Even if they do think to look for me here, I look nothing like that anymore.” He was right. He looked much cleaner, much neater, much younger and much healthier – he’d shaved off the beard and put on weight so he was no longer gaunt and wasted, but fast was regaining the strong, wiry physique he’d had back then. Back when they were still a “they”.

“I don’t know. Is Dumbledore sure this place is safe?”

“Safe as it could be.” Sirius stretched, and reached for a bottle of vodka and took a swig. “Besides, what the hell are you thinking about Dumbledore for? Don’t I warrant enough of your attention?” He lunged towards Remus, lithe as a cat, predatory moves exaggerated for effect, before pouncing on him. “Or am I not good enough anymore? Looking for an older man, are you?”

Remus shuddered dramatically. “God, not that much older, I hope. Nah, I figure you’ll do. Just for now, mind, and just because you have that vault full of gold.” And he pulled him forward and kissed him, long, deeply, tasting the alcohol on his lips.

Sirius laughed. “I knew it. You only love me for my money.”

“Well, of course. What else do you have going for you?” He let his gaze sweep down Sirius’ body, pausing more than once with an appreciative grin. What else indeed.


	4. Fortitude

To Abby (Chemical Pixie), from Mel (melian), for her donation of $25 to the NSW Rural Fire Service.

Andromeda/Ted Tonks

Andromeda looked at the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ with dismay. _Muggle-born Registration Commission Established_ read the headline, with the text beneath detailing all the ways Ted, a man with no magical heritage whatsoever, would be affected from now on. “Invited” to present at the Ministry for “registration”, the article said. Well, she knew how that would turn out. Ever since the Ministry had been taken over by Pius Thicknesse and his cronies it had made changes, at first small, minor, not really noteworthy, but all the while building up to something like this. It had taken less time than they’d thought, though: less than a month, all told. Andromeda was pleased her daughter was involved in the Order of the Phoenix now – while it certainly put her in more danger than she would have been otherwise, at least it meant they were kept up to date on what was really happening, and could see initiatives like this for what they really were.

“Have a read of this,” she said to Ted when he came into the kitchen, rubbing a towel through his hair. “You’re about to be targeted.”

He took a brief look at the article and swore under his breath. “Invited to register, huh? More like, they’ll rock up on the doorstep to take me in.”

She watched him, scared, wondering why he didn’t seem more concerned. “How long do you think we’ve got?”

“Before they come for me? No idea.” He pulled her up and wrapped his arms around her, his still damp towel draped over one shoulder. “We knew it was only a matter of time. Ever since the Ministry fell, the Death Eater ideology was bound to come out sooner or later. I’ll be alright.” He paused. “Guess I won’t be going to work today, though. Best to make a break for it while I still can.”

Her heart fell. “So soon?”

He tilted her head up so they were facing each other. “What’s the point in waiting? The sooner I can get off, the more false tracks I can lay, the bigger distance I can get between me and them and the less likely they are to find me.”

“But where will we go?”

He looked taken aback. “We? No, not we, love. Me. _I’m_ going. I have to do this alone.”

“I’m not letting you leave without me.” She hoped she looked as fierce as she felt. “We’ll face this together. We always have. Every stumble, every obstacle, we’ve taken it down together. As a team, Ted. And look at us! We’re still here, aren’t we? We’re still going.” She took a breath. “We’re a team. Remember that. We’re not stopping now.”

His face was pained. “I think this time we have to. Dora’s pregnant, remember.”

Her heart glowed, just a little. While she hadn’t been thrilled about their daughter’s marriage to Remus Lupin, a werewolf, the thought of a new baby – a grandchild – wiped that all out. They’d only found out two days before and she still got goose bumps just thinking about it. She just hoped lycanthropy wasn’t hereditary.

Ted went on. “This isn’t likely to end well, Dromeda. It won’t be safe out there. What if something happened to both of us? She’s going to need you when the baby comes, and probably before then, too.”

She drew away from him, hating that he was right. As exciting as the news of the baby was, it complicated things irrevocably. She could see from his expression that he knew she agreed with him.

He kissed her forehead and twirled a curl of her hair around his finger. “I don’t want to go. You know that. But I have to. Just being here could put you in danger, and Dora, and the baby. And I can’t risk anything happening to you. Either of you. Any of you.”

She nodded, tears clouding her vision. This was a war, after all. And she knew about wars. She’d lived through one before. In wars, people had to make sacrifices. Last time it had been the support of her family, due to choosing Ted: her parents and sisters had all been on the other side. This time, it was Ted himself she was sacrificing. She could hardly bear it.

“Not yet,” she said, pressing herself against him. “You still have an hour or two, right?” She looked up at him with bright eyes. He nodded, understanding crossing his face, breaking into that cheeky smile she’d fallen in love with so many years ago.

“Yes, I have that long.”

She gave him half a smile and began to lead him up the stairs, knowing this was the last time, her heart breaking with every step. “Well, in that case, I suppose we’d better make this count.”


	5. Complex superiority

For Laura (Aphoride) from Mel (melian), for her adoption of a koala from the Port Macquarie Koala Hospital.

Regulus/Barty Crouch Jr

Regulus walked into the dorm to dump his bag down and maybe run a comb through his hair before dinner. He didn’t make a habit of checking his appearance before mealtimes but he’d just had Potions and it was pretty much spitting distance from that classroom to the Slytherin dormitories, so there was both the time and the opportunity today. And, well, it didn’t hurt to look your best occasionally. Not that he had anyone in particular in mind. Of course not. Regulus Black didn’t fixate on any one person. That would be beneath his dignity.

He stopped short when he got to the dorm, because the person he was definitely not fixating on had beat him in there somehow. Regulus frowned – he’d definitely not seen him pass him, so he must have been well ahead when they left class. Yet, there he was. Slight, sandy haired, nose buried in a newspaper as usual: Barty Crouch liked to keep on top of what was happening outside Hogwarts. His father was some kind of bigwig in the Ministry and he liked to brag about how much power he had in the government. Regulus tended to scoff at these claims. Barty Snr might hold some kind of senior position, but he was still just a Crouch.

Barty looked up briefly. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.” Regulus headed for his bed and fished in his bedside cabinet for his comb. “You coming to supper?”

“Hmmm. Maybe.” Barty looked completely disinterested. “I heard about your aunt Dorea dying, by the way. Sorry about that.”

Regulus sneered. “Why are you sorry? Did you kill her?”

“Well, no, of course not, but still. Were you close?”

“Not exactly. She married a blood traitor so we haven’t seen her in years. Besides, she was a great aunt anyway.” He paused. “Have you offered your condolences to Potter as well? He’s related somehow too.”

Crouch looked revolted. “Why would I be talking to Potter? He’s almost as bad as your brother.”

That hit a sore point. “Watch what you’re saying about my brother, Crouch. He might be a blood traitor but he’s still a Black. And that shits on being a Crouch any day.”

Barty stood up, newspaper forgotten on the floor by his feet. “The Crouches are almost as old as the Blacks, as you well know. Part of the Sacred Twenty Eight. So don’t get all high and mighty at me on how superior the Blacks are.”

Regulus scoffed. “The Sacred Twenty Eight isn’t worth shit. Bloody Weasleys are on it. So yes, sorry, Crouch, the Blacks _are_ superior and you know it.”

Barty had crossed the floor to face him now. “For now. Everyone knows the Blacks are on the decline. Only two boys in this generation, wasn’t it? And one of those a traitor. Whereas my family, we’re right up top in the Ministry. We might not have the clout your name has, but we’ve got more power than you’ll ever have. And that’s why you don’t like me. Because you’re jealous. Not because you think you’re better than me, but because you’re terrified you’re worse.”

That was even worse than the comment about Sirius he’d lobbed before. The very suggestion that Barty Crouch could be superior to Regulus Black was insulting. Equal in some ways, sure – just as smart, just as striking, just as attractive – but not better. Never better. The Blacks didn’t stand for anyone to be better than they were.

“You … you think I’m jealous??” Regulus forced out some laughter he wasn’t sure he felt. “Jealous, of a Crouch? You’ve got to be joking. I could never be jealous of you.”

Barty looked somewhat unsure for the first time, and his hand went into his robes, seeking his wand. “Of course you’re jealous. Why else would you keep watching me like you do? Why else would you be trying to listen in on what I’m saying all the time?” He located his wand and pulled it out, almost-but-not-quite getting the pose right for duelling.

Regulus laughed for good now. “You want to duel me?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Barty’s chin was raised now and they were almost the same height. “If I need to do this to get you off my back.”

His back. Regulus had a sudden image of Barty’s back below him, naked, buttocks exposed … He shook his head. No. Blacks did not fixate on people.

Instead, he batted Barty’s wand away. “You don’t want to challenge me, Barty Crouch. Not really.”

Barty held his eye for a fraction too long. “Yeah? Then what do I want to do?”

Regulus knew the answer to that. He reached out, pulled Barty’s face towards his and kissed him, harshly, furiously, almost violently, almost tasting the other boy’s shock until suddenly he felt his own face grasped, his own body pulled in, and Barty’s tongue exploring his mouth. The ferocity didn’t fade; rather, Barty reciprocated in kind, ripping his robes as he pushed them off his shoulders, scratching his back as he reached beneath the school uniform to the bare skin underneath. Only when they both needed to pause for air did they stop, staring at each other, slightly dazed but without an ounce of regret.

Regulus spoke first. “So … you planning on going to supper?”

Barty looked at Regulus’ torn robes and pushed him onto the bed, pulling the curtains closed behind him.

“Not tonight, I don’t think,” he said, straddling him, running a hand across his chin and down his neck. “What about you?”


End file.
